Boxing

The ball of the century

the bandages around our handsand our gloves are measuredas is the ring and all manner of thingstimes and towels and helpersin the cornerall measured and regulated

and we are matchedby men who've been thereand look after uswho draw up columns of equalitywhere important boxes get tickedage experience medical mattersthe tension of the ropesthe intensity of the lightsthe size of the square

but before each fightas the ring is clearedand the buzz goes downmy trainer lays his handflat on my hard chestand tells me quietlynow it's about the thingthat can't be measured

Match point

the ball curls through the airat jet speed to usthough crawling for the one who'slosing this match now

for him the ball's Einstein slowno calculationno milliseconds of relativitycan put him and the ballin the same partitionof time and space

the facts of what happens nextare identical to both playersthe ball thuds the back wallvictory-thunder net-shake

but feelings go flip-sideas the court becomes more yin-yang than Einsteinblue base white lines one sidewhite base blue lines the other

the ball of the centuryhad deception stitchedinto its birth certificatewhen Warnie's armrolled overlike a languid windmilland Gatting set himselfto watch and block the first ballof just another spinner

red fizzpuff of grey-brown dustfallen stumpflung off bail

hang on how the what

as he walks awayGatting turns backlooking for a lump on the pitchfor a crackan area of soft powderfor something he hadn't seensomething that wasn't there

Cathy Freeman

perspective distorts the staggered startputs the first one so far aheadyou'd think she'd have to win

they are pulling tractorsthrough Bondi sandand our screamingmakes the air in fronttoo hot for them to breathe

love erupts all over the placefor the second Aboriginalto claim an Olympic gold medaland the first of any kind of usto win one in a hoodie

Soccer

all that runningback and forth runninglateral runningrunning on sine curvesrunning in circlesbackwards and sidewardsinventing new anglesfor the compass

what would a satellitetracker make of itthe ball zig-zaggingwithin the blinks of lit timeand a laser cut gridunable to make up its minda rabbit running from houndsjoin the dots to makea string art masterpiece

and there are legs everywherestretching out to flattened veespumping and turningthe random choreographyof Busby Berkeleyon back-lane pills